


Illusions

by PrettyTheWorld



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Coping, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New York, One Shot, Post-Canon, Support, ew2020, mental health, mention of depression, mentions of COVID-19 pandemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyTheWorld/pseuds/PrettyTheWorld
Summary: At the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, Justin felt like being stuck at home alone with Brian had been a blissful blessing in disguise.Several months into it? Not so much.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 47
Collections: Queer as Folk Holiday Gift Exchange





	Illusions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitkatbyte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatbyte/gifts).



> Gift Request: Brian and Justin living in the same city again by the time the pandemic hits. What little changes will come to their lives and how will they adjust?
> 
> This fic took on a life of its own, and ended up a little more angsty than I had anticipated, but I found it was a bit cathartic to write, given the past year, and I hope others feel the same in reading it. It may have a mild mental health trigger, but no major warnings. On the bright side, I’m incapable of NOT writing a B/J happy ending. 
> 
> Title inspired by and borrowed from a song of the same name by Matt Nathanson.

“Unless you’re live-painting a herd of elephants that just arrived, I’d really appreciate if you could keep it the _fuck_ down when you’re going between floors,” came the irritated voice on the other end of Justin’s iPhone. 

Justin choked out a laugh. “Did you _seriously_ just call me to complain about how I go up and down the stairs in our home?” he asked incredulously. “Work slow today?”

“No,” Brian barked. “I’ve been going nonstop since eight o’clock, but I haven’t been able to hear myself think for the past fifteen minutes.”

“Forgive me as I have to make multiple trips to bring the insanely huge Instacart order you made upstairs,” Justin groused back, half-tempted to head back downstairs, actively trying to be as loud as possible. Brian’s home office was on the basement level of their townhouse, where, unlike the upper levels of their home which featured multiple “floating” staircases, the stairs were both closed and carpeted -- thus, not echo chambers for noise. And since Brian had spent the better part of the day sitting in his obscenely expensive, ergonomic desk chair, while Justin was forced to take a break from _his_ work to handle errands around the house, he wasn’t feeling particularly sympathetic toward his husband’s plight. 

Brian snorted. “I told you we could install an elevator. You’re the one who refused.”

Justin rolled his eyes, realizing that, with both of them in their current moods, nothing was going to be resolved in this conversation, so he ignored Brian’s comment and said, “I have one more set of bags to bring up, and whatever you ordered from Amazon. I promise I’ll do it as _quietly_ as possible, so as not to risk derailing the entirety of the Kinnetik empire.” He hung up before Brian could respond.

Once the groceries were carried upstairs (at a volume that Justin hoped was acceptable), he began the even more arduous task of unpacking. For how little and simply Brian ate on a regular basis, Justin had no idea what he’d been thinking when making the order from their local Morton Williams -- including what he’d thought Justin might do with six bunches of bananas, or why four separate Oreo varieties seemed reasonable in a weekly haul. Ever since the original stay-at-home order had been issued in New York, they’d done everything they could to comply, but Justin was starting to wonder if, perhaps, it was worth reclaiming the Instacart shopping -- or even doing the grocery shopping himself. On some level, he knew taking on some of the household tasks had given Brian a semblance of control over life as they had come to know it over the past few months, but it was also making Justin lose his mind. Maybe getting out of the house every other week or so would help him maintain sanity. 

It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Brian emerged from downstairs. Justin sat at the island counter, skimming the _New York Times_ and nursing a glass of Pinot Grigio. “I made some shrimp scampi and angel hair,” he informed his husband. “I didn’t know when you’d be done with work, so I put it in the fridge. I can re--”

“I can’t do carbs after seven,” Brian cut him off, looking surprised that Justin would consider suggesting otherwise.

Justin raised an eyebrow. “Since when? You haven’t cared about that in _years_!”

“Since I’ve gained six pounds in the last three months. You know I can’t go to the gym,” he said, his tone almost accusatory. 

“Well,” Justin said, irritation clear in his own voice. “I’m not sure how I was supposed to know you’re suddenly dieting, considering we had potatoes at seven-thirty last night, and you didn’t seem to have a problem then.”

“I weighed myself earlier,” Brian replied. “Now you know.”

“Duly noted,” Justin muttered. “And the shrimp is what I made for our dinner. If it’s not to your standards, feel free to explore the refrigerator and have at it. I don’t work at the Liberty Diner anymore.”

Brian’s body language shifted into a noticeably defensive stance as he cast a disgusted look at his husband. “What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped.

“What the fuck is _yours_?” Justin exploded back, standing up from his stool. “I’ve literally been going about my day, doing the best I can to keep myself employed in this _shitstorm_ of a year so far, while doing every other possible task around this place so that you can focus on working from home, _including_ making dinner, but do I hear a thank you from you? No. Instead I walk too loudly and don’t cater to your dietary needs. I’m sorry I can’t fucking do it all, Brian.” He drained the remainder of his wine and slammed the glass back on the granite counter so hard that it nearly shattered.

As Justin yelled, Brian’s expression had grown concerned, but morphed into something more bemused as he focused in on the kitchen’s back counter. When Justin finished, before Brian could think better of it, he asked, “Why do we have so many bananas?”

“Oh my _FUCKING_ god,” Justin exclaimed and stormed up the stairs to the third floor, slamming the door to his studio behind him. 

***

A half hour later, Justin was slapping paint on a canvas in an effort to release some of his frustration when there was a knock on the door.

“What?” he grumbled, standing back to see if what he’d created thus far was resulting in something remotely redeemable. Since the start of the pandemic, work had been a challenge -- both for Justin’s inspiration, and business in general. Since galleries and museums weren’t considered “essential,” there was a halt in shows and exhibitions, and with most people trying to be financially cautious, fine art was not in high demand. Justin had a few commissions that he was trying to finish, but he was trying to stretch them out as far as he could. It wasn’t that he _needed_ the money that came from the sales, but having continuity in his work and business helped him to maintain a feeling of purpose in the art world, rather than feeling like Brian’s kept househusband. 

The door opened and Brian peeked his head in. “I come in peace,” he said, holding out a fresh glass of wine, before opening the door fully. Justin could see that he was also balancing a bowl of something in his arm. Upon noticing Justin’s curious look, he added, “I presumed you had waited on me for dinner.”

Justin sighed. “It’s okay.”

“Well, I heated some for you… if you want it.” Brian set the bowl of steaming shrimp pasta on the coffee table. Normally, the room served as a rec room of sorts for when Gus visited, so he had his own space to hang out with friends and play video games, but in the face of COVID-19, it had become Justin’s de-facto workspace, since enough of the furniture could be moved around to fit a few of his easels and a selection of supplies. In theory, there likely wouldn’t have been an issue with continuing to work in his rented studio space in Tribeca, but with the infection rate around the city, and Brian working from home, they’d decided that it was safest for Justin to do the same. What had resulted was a space Justin actually liked a lot -- his easels were set up near the row of windows along the back wall, and they’d arranged the existing furniture on the opposite side of the room.

In the early days of the pandemic, when they’d first found enjoyment in being at home together on a regular basis, they’d put the sofas (and most other cushioned or mattressed furniture in the house) to good use, having sex as frequently and in as many places as possible. Justin’s “studio” had been a top contender, considering the inspiration that frequently resulted from a steamy afternoon (or morning, or evening) delight. As time went on, however, their impromptu trysts had started to wane noticeably -- to the point where their sex life had gone from being as active as it had been back in the early days of their relationship to having sex once or twice a week, at most. Now, Brian spent the majority of his workday on the basement level of their home, Justin oversaw the rest, and most of the rest of their waking time was spent on the second floor, either surfing Netflix or complaining to (or about) each other, or trying to avoid being in the same room out of pure exhaustion from existing in nonstop shared space.

“Thanks,” Justin said, giving his canvas a final once-over, and deciding that he’d revisit it in the morning, when he could see it against daylight. He walked over to the couch and sat down nearest where Brian had set the bowl. “Did you eat anything?” he asked.

“I had some of the shrimp,” Brian admitted. “It was good.”

Justin offered a half smile before leaning in over the bowl and beginning to eat. As his stomach got filled, he realized how ravenous he’d been, and how it had likely contributed to his earlier outburst. Brian sat quietly while he ate, sipping his own glass of wine and looking around at Justin’s unfinished artwork.

“I haven’t been in here for a few days,” he said after a while. “I didn’t realize how much progress you’ve made on some of these. They look amazing.”

Justin shrugged, leaning back against the cushion. “I’m not sure if I’m in love with any of it lately. I feel like I’m forcing it, which just makes the process even more tedious.”

Brian, to his credit, didn’t dispute Justin’s statement. It was one of the things that they mutually appreciated about the others’ work -- neither settled, and both strived for perfection in their creative arenas, be it via paintings or ad campaigns. If Justin said he wasn’t satisfied with his work, it was something that Brian would respect until otherwise asked for his opinion. 

“Do you have much more work to do?” Brian asked after a few more minutes. His wine was almost gone, and he watched the remnants swirl around the bottom of the glass as he waited for Justin’s response.

“I wasn’t really planning to do what I just did, so I guess not,” Justin said, and started to gather the items that needed to go back to the kitchen. “Do you want me to take your glass downstairs?”

“Or,” Brian tilted his head in invitation. “We could refill them and take them upstairs…”

Justin studied his husband for a moment before he responded, a vaguely apologetic smile on his lips. “I think I just want to watch some TV right now.”

As much as he was grateful for Brian’s “peace offering” in the form of bringing him dinner, he couldn’t shake the frustration of their earlier exchange, and that Brian had shown no actual remorse for how he’d treated him. Justin knew that Brian was stressed out as he continually had to adapt and readapt his work to fit their current business model, but it wasn’t an excuse to take it out on his also-struggling husband, and unlike the earlier years of their relationship, sex was not the solution. 

Brian frowned. “You can watch TV upstairs too…”

“It’s okay,” Justin said. “I just want to relax on the couch. I’ll be up in awhile.” It was a clear dismissal that Brian was trying to pretend didn’t bother him, so he slid his wine glass to Justin, who gathered everything and headed to the lower stairs, while Brian sighed and headed up to the master.

Around two o’clock in the morning, Justin woke up, realizing he was still on the sofa. The television had turned itself off, so the only light in the room was what drifted in from the street outside. As he became more aware of his surroundings, Justin realized that there was a soft afghan covering his body -- one he hadn’t brought to the sofa with him. He felt a pang of guilt when he thought of Brian coming downstairs in search of him, finding him asleep, and carefully covering him before retreating back to their bedroom. The space between them felt wider than usual, and though he was still annoyed, it made him realize that he really did prefer sleeping next to his husband.

In Justin’s still-drowsy state, the two story climb to their master bedroom felt exhausting, so he made it as far as yanking off his t-shirt and sweats before climbing into bed. He was just about to fall back to sleep when he felt Brian’s arm come around him, pulling him close. The last thing he heard before he drifted off was a murmured, “I’m sorry.”

***

“I’m still curious why we have so many bananas,” Brian said the next morning, accepting the plate of scrambled egg whites and fruit that Justin slid to him from the other side of the island.

“You did the Instacart order,” Justin pointed out, taking a bite out of his peanut butter-slathered English muffin. “Why _do_ we have so many bananas?”

Brian took a sip from his coffee cup and then shrugged. “How the fuck should I know? I only requested six, but instead they gave us--” he paused to count, then muttered, “Fuck.”

Justin felt a smile break out on his face and quickly turned away from Brian to hide it, using the bacon still sizzling on the stove as an excuse. Brian wasn’t outright offering admission to his error, but it was as close as it was going to get, and Justin chose to recognize it as such. “I can do the order for next week if you want,” he offered casually, turning bacon slices onto a plate of paper towels to drain. 

There was no response, and when Justin turned back to look at Brian, the latter’s face was buried in the discarded _New York Times_ from the night before. It wasn’t clear if Brian was purposely trying to avoid the question, or if he hadn’t heard it to begin with, so Justin let it go, and moved around the counter to take a seat and begin his own breakfast.

Brian went down to his home office shortly after he finished eating, and Justin remained in the kitchen, quickly washing the dishes. Breakfast had felt surprisingly normal, all things considered -- Brian had even kissed him before heading downstairs, so Justin hoped that the prior evening’s blow-up had helped to put everything back on a more even keel. 

Justin spent about an hour in his studio in the late morning, surveying the work he’d done the night before, and while he liked what he’d started, he still wasn’t sure where he wanted to go with it, and didn’t feel that he was in the right headspace to let it come naturally. 

He found himself sitting at the dining room table instead, trying to sketch out some possible directions, when, shortly before he was about to make lunch, the doorbell rang. He grabbed a facemask and headed for the stairs, though he suspected who he’d find. 

Since the beginning of the stay-at-home order, Brian and Justin had really only maintained physical contact with one other person besides each other -- Brian’s longtime assistant and close friend, Cynthia. Conveniently, Cynthia’s apartment was about two blocks from theirs, and she lived alone, making her an ideal -- and only -- addition to their COVID “pod.” To Justin’s benefit, she was also the only other person in New York who could handle Brian when his stress manifested in inhumane ways -- and dish it right back. 

Unsurprisingly, when Justin made it down to their entry level, Cynthia was standing on the stoop, wearing a shimmering silver and black sequined mask. 

“Hey,” Justin greeted her, smiling and stepping back so she could come inside. “Want to come up for a cup of coffee, or need to get down to Brian?”

Cynthia ran a hand through her curly blonde hair, and pulled her mask off. “Boss is in a bit of a state,” she explained. “Alex Remsen _himself_ called Brian earlier, asking to boost the ads for their new COVID drug by an insane margin. They’re trying to get ahead of the wave, because word has it that BioCorp is about to issue a major announcement in the next month.”

Justin’s eyes widened. “Wow, that’s big!” he exclaimed, understanding that Remsen was one of Brian’s most lucrative clients, dating back to his early days in advertising, and one of the accounts he most valued. However, Justin also knew that it was one of the clients Brian stressed over most, as he felt a huge amount of pressure to preserve their loyalty.

“It is,” Cynthia agreed. “We were trying to work out the logistics via phone and video conferencing, but it’s more of a pain in the ass than it is productive, so I told him I’d just come over. We’ll need to call a staff meeting afterward anyway.”

“Best of luck,” Justin said, and though his tone was teasing, he wasn’t entirely joking. He knew how intense Brian could get in high-stress situations -- whereas Justin tended to withdraw, Brian got louder and more unreasonable.

Cynthia laughed. “Thanks, but I’ve got this. If there’s one thing I’m equipped to handle after all these years, it’s a bull-headed Brian Kinney.” Justin believed her. After all, she’d known Brian even before he’d met Justin. This wasn’t new territory for her by any stretch of the imagination. “Besides,” she added conspiratorially. “He couldn’t survive this without me.”

Justin grinned, and then said, “I was just about to make lunch. Can I bring something down to you?”

Cynthia’s eyes lit up. “That would be amazing. I’ve been eating the same Thai takeout for the past two days, and I couldn’t bring myself to finish it off today.”

Justin nodded, grateful for a task that felt like it might actually benefit someone who would appreciate it. “Sure, I’ll be--” 

The sound of a door opening and Brian’s voice interrupted what Justin had been about to say. “Cynthia? What the fuck are you doing?” he called, the tone in his voice giving a clear indication of his mood. Justin realized he must’ve seen her arrival on their Ring camera and had been waiting. 

Cynthia looked at Justin and rolled her eyes as she headed toward the stairs that led to the basement suite. “I’m being polite to your husband,” she called back as she began her descent. “You should try it sometime.”

Brian didn’t respond, so Justin headed back upstairs, feeling grateful that Brian had a work partner who was able to serve as a foil to his more high-strung tendencies. Cynthia was a powerhouse in her own right, but her approach was much less antagonistic. However, she was also not afraid to speak her mind, including when it involved putting Brian in his place, and Justin imagined that that was happening a lot lately, considering the amount of business Kinnetik seemed to be generating.

The crazy thing about being in a pandemic, Justin thought, as he seared chicken breasts in his grill pan, was that an industry like Brian’s was actually exploding, and they were acquiring new clients and expanding accounts like crazy as top-dollar industries identified what was most-needed to help the world cope with this unprecedented “new normal.” While Brian was regularly stressed out after long work days, he was also riding a wave of wild success, and certainly in no danger of Kinnetik floundering anytime soon. 

Justin tried to push down the pang of jealousy he felt, wondering how things might have been different for him if _he’d_ had a sudden and huge demand for his work. There were positives and negatives to the prospect, but the biggest upside was that he wouldn’t have to spend so much time wondering _if_ his industry would rebound. Obviously the concept of art itself wasn’t going anywhere, but it also didn’t have the same necessity that came with something like advertising. 

He sighed as he finished assembling the salad he’d prepared, neatly placing strips of chicken across its surface. There was really no point in even trying to explain his feelings to Brian; he knew what the response would be: Come work for Kinnetik. But Justin wanted to make it on his own -- and more importantly, he _could_ make it on his own. He just needed the world to return to some semblance of normal Unfortunately, it was far more easily said than done. 

For now, he had to focus on the present -- and at the moment, it involved feeding his husband and friend downstairs, doing what he could to make _their_ lives easier.

***

Justin decided that the most efficient way to get lunch downstairs was to load up a picnic basket to avoid having to make multiple trips (and reigniting Brian’s rage over his allegedly thunderous footsteps), so he covered the salad bowl and put it inside, along with plates, utensils, glasses, and a large bottle of Pellegrino. 

He’d had to shake a little sand out of the basket at first, recalling wistful memories of the last time it had been used, the previous summer, when Brian had surprised him with a day together at a private beach on Long Island and life had been so much simpler -- or so it felt in comparison to this year. 

When Justin entered the finished basement, which also included a large guest suite they reserved for out-of-town visitors, the door to Brian’s office was open by several inches. He could see Brian and Cynthia sitting at Brian’s computer, examining something on one of his giant desktop monitors. 

He tapped his knuckles against the doorframe and called out, “Lunch!” before pushing the door open further.

“You’re a saint!” Cynthia exclaimed, smiling when she saw the picnic basket he was holding. “You think of everything!”

Brian took in the sight of his husband and snorted. “Except when the fuck you think we’ll have time for a picnic. I’ve got two hours to finish sorting this out before it’s presented to the staff, and then, if I’m lucky, they’ll be able to get their shit together to have something ready by the end of tomorrow.” 

Cynthia cast a withering look in Brian’s direction. “Uh, excuse you, but Justin offered lunch, and I accepted. _We_ have two hours to sort things out, and we’re well on our way. _I’m_ taking some time to eat. If you’d prefer to work through lunch, then that’s your choice to make.” 

Brian barely even acknowledged that she’d spoken.

Frustration was apparent in Justin’s features as he found himself feeling exactly as he had the night before -- completely unappreciated despite his best efforts to help his husband. He set the basket on the table without saying a word, and turned to leave when Cynthia spoke up.

“Why don’t you join us?” she asked. “I think we could _both_ benefit from a break,” she added pointedly. Brian’s eyes darted in her direction long enough to roll at her, and then his attention returned to his computer and whatever he was clicking into place. 

“No thanks,” Justin said, finding his voice. “I just wanted to drop this off. Mine’s already upstairs. I know you’re both busy, so I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Brian muttered something that Justin couldn’t hear clearly, but that sounded something like, “That would require welcome to begin with,” and Justin had had enough.

“Brian, may I talk to you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

Brian cast him a cursory glance over the top of his monitor. “In case you missed it,” he said, “I’m in the middle of something a little _fucking_ important.”

Justin felt his eyes welling with tears, a result of his resentment more than the actual force of Brian’s words. “Forgive me,” he began, bitterness seeping from his voice as he willed his voice not to tremble. “Far be it from me to make bold assumptions about your _priorities_.”

The tone in his voice was what finally garnered Brian’s full attention, and when he took in Justin’s face, his own expression softened. “Justin--” he began, but Justin had already turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing as he made his way back upstairs. 

By the time Justin re-entered the second floor, he was crying in earnest, hoping that neither Brian nor Cynthia would come after him. He was furious with himself for losing control of his emotions, and even more annoyed that he couldn’t seem to stop crying now, which felt like a gross overreaction to the situation. He and Brian had had some pretty spectacular fights over the course of their relationship, and this didn’t even rank in comparison, but he still couldn’t ignore the heavy feeling in his chest or the burning in his eyes as tears slipped down his cheeks.

He finally pulled himself together enough to put his salad back in the refrigerator and make his way to the third floor. At the top of the stars, he could see the unfinished canvases in the back of his studio, and another sob wracked his body. He pulled the studio door shut, and continued up another level to his bedroom, where he quickly retrieved a few clothing items, his laptop, and phone charger before heading back to the third floor, and into their other guest suite, locking the door behind him. At this point, it seemed unlikely that Brian was going to seek him out before the end of his work day, but Justin wasn’t particularly ready to talk to his husband either, and wanted it to be on his own terms. 

But despite needing distance from his husband, Justin realized that it was also probably not a good idea for him to be completely alone and left to his own devices. With no safe in-person options available, he turned to his cell phone and pulled up his contacts, tapping the third name on his “Favorites” list.

“Ohmigod, your timing is impeccable,” his best friend’s voice bubbled through the phone. He could practically hear the smile on her face, but instead of making him feel better, it just made him start crying again. “Justin?” Daphne said a moment later, realizing he hadn’t yet spoken. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, mustering as much of a voice as he could. 

“Justin, what’s going on? Are you OK? Is Brian OK?”

Justin sighed and tried to calm himself down. “Can you talk?”

“Hang on for a second,” Daphne said hurriedly, and he heard shuffling sounds as she covered her phone and spoke to someone, giving Justin an opportunity to blow his nose. “I’ve got twenty minutes, for now,” she said when she returned to the line. 

Daphne was now an attending physician at an uptown hospital, and if anyone had seen the worst of the worst of the pandemic so far, it was her. It was also the main reason why, despite her being in the same city, Justin hadn’t seen her in several months. They talked and FaceTimed regularly, but Justin _missed_ his best friend -- especially now. 

“Thanks, Daph,” Justin said. “Sorry to bother you at work.”

“It’s fine. I was actually about to step off the floor to grab something to eat, so, like I said, your timing is good. But what’s going on?” she asked again, her voice much softer. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said, going with the first thought that came to mind.

“What are your symptoms?” Daphne asked, suddenly sounding more clinical. “Do you think it’s COVID? Have you checked your body temperature?”

“I’m not sick,” Justin said quickly. “I mean, not physically. Mentally, though…”

Daphne made a sympathetic sound. “I’m sorry, Jus. Did something happen? Have you talked to Brian?”

“Brian wants nothing to do with me,” Justin said with a scoff, though the sound turned into another series of dry sobs. “Things have been different for a while now, but the last week or two, I just don’t know.” 

“What does ‘a while’ mean?” Daphne asked. “What’s different?”

Justin sighed again. “He’s just so stressed out with work, and we’re constantly around the house, it’s like he can’t stand the sight of me half the time, so he’s just… _mean_ , and then the other half of the time, he’s trying to make up for it, but he’s already pissed me off, so we go our separate ways. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve fucked in the last month, and yeah -- some of that is because of me, but I’ve tried to do anything else that I can to make his life easy. Not only does he not appreciate it, he also doesn’t seem to give a fuck that things might not be so easy for me either.” 

“I see,” Daphne said, sounding sympathetic. “I know this is a stupid question, but… have you _talked_ to him about how you feel?” 

“I don’t really even know what to say,” Justin admitted. “Sometimes it’s just the tone he uses, or the fact that I usually take the brunt of his work frustration, but other times, it’s not him at all, and I just… I _can’t_ function, sometimes I don’t _want_ to function, and… I dunno. I’m just so… _over it._ I’ve literally spent the better part of the last half hour crying, and I don’t even know why.”

“Well, I’m no mental health professional, but it sounds a lot like you’re depressed,” Daphne said gently.

“Depressed?” Justin repeated. “Yeah, I guess that makes a lot of sense. I guess I just… I haven’t…” he paused, his voice breaking on the word, “I haven’t felt like there’s a lot to believe in lately. I miss work. I miss my mom and our friends. I miss _you_. I even miss Brian, which sounds so fucking… ridiculous to say. But, everything felt so good before this year, you know? Things had been good for _so_ long, and then fucking 2020 happened and--”

“--And you’re struggling. Brian is struggling. We’re _all_ struggling, Justin. And I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. I’m telling you so that you give yourself some _grace_. You’re allowed to cry or feel lost. You’re allowed to feel resentful. You’re allowed to miss whoever the fuck you want.” The fervency and conviction in Daphne’s voice made Justin want to believe her.

“Thanks, Daph,” he said quietly. “I guess I needed to hear that.” 

“You’re welcome, dork,” she said affectionately. “But I’m serious,” she continued. “Go easy on yourself, and… I know it’s probably not what you _want_ to do right now, because I know how he can get, so I’m sure now it’s exponentially worse -- but cut Brian a little slack too. Try to get _him_ to talk--”

Justin snorted.

“You know how he is better than anyone,” Daphne insisted. “Trust me.” 

“Why else would I call you when I’m a snotty mess?” Justin asked, inadvertently proving his point by sniffing extremely audibly. 

Daphne laughed. “Gross.”

Justin joined in her laughter, taking a moment to appreciate how good it felt, and added some additional acoustics, just to hear her giggle, but then his mood sobered again. “I know I need to talk to Brian, but I think I honestly need a break… some time to think, at least.”

“Why don’t you paint?” Daphne suggested. “That always seems to help.” 

“Ugh,” Justin groaned. “Don’t even get me started on painting. I have four unfinished commissions sitting across the hall, and I can’t even stand to look at them right now.”

Daphne hummed thoughtfully. “Why do you think that is?” she asked, no judgment in her tone.

Justin sighed tiredly. “I think… for a lot of reasons. I think part of me is just burned out from everything. Part of me worries what happens when they’re done. I haven’t had a new order since the beginning of March, and I don’t really know how to change that when it’s not safe to be out marketing or showing my work--”

“In case you forgot,” Daphne cut him off, “your husband is pretty much the best ad executive on the east coast. Why don’t you ask Brian for some help?”

“And give him more work?” Justin scoffed. “Besides, you know I prefer keeping our work separate. I don’t _need_ Brian to be successful.”

“Did I say that?” Daphne asked, and Justin could picture the exact indignant expression likely gracing her face. “I’m just saying, maybe now isn’t the time to play martyr, especially if getting Brian’s expertise would help relieve some of your own stress. I _highly_ doubt that he’d mind.”

“He probably wouldn’t,” Justin admitted. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not just that, though. Everything just feels so… stale right now. The only thing I’m even half-interested in right now is something I did in anger last night, but it’s unfinished, and I tried to revisit it today, but it was just like a… momentary thing, I guess. I had no idea where to go with it.”

“You know,” Daphne said, and Justin could hear her crunching on something. “Art wasn’t always your job. It used to be your hobby.”

“Yeah, Captain Obvious, I know that,” Justin said, wondering where she was going.

“Hey,” Daphne snapped, though there was no actual malice in her voice. “You’re the one who called me.” 

Justin laughed. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve just been so on-edge the last day or two, and I’m realizing now that it’s even been longer than that.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, but I do have to get back to work in a minute, so just listen for a minute, because I’m about to drop a reality bomb on you, OK?”

“Uh oh,” Justin teased. “I’m ready.” And as much as he had a feeling that he wouldn’t feel great by whatever his best friend was about to impart, it was something he’d need to hear. Daphne was reliable that way -- and Justin loved her for it, even when he hated it.

“Do you know what the last few months have been like for me?” she asked, and before he could answer, she continued. “I’ll tell you, even if I have before, because it bears repeating. Listen to me. Are you listening?”

Justin couldn’t stop himself from smiling, despite knowing what was likely coming next. Apparently “best friend reality bombs” were more universally delivered than he’d realized -- or else Daphne had somehow taken a page from the Brian-Michael playbook without meaning to. “I’m listening.”

“Good. Justin, I am surrounded by this virus. Nearly every minute of every day, it’s my reality. And right now, the bad news far outweighs the good. _Then_ , after a day of _literally_ being surrounded by that, I go home, strip down before I’m more than a step inside my apartment, put everything in a trash bag for the laundry, and shower a day’s worth of potentially fatal, infinitesimally small particles off of my body, just _hoping_ I haven’t somehow contracted it myself, one way or another, or that I haven’t spread it any further into the house. And then, after that, if I can’t sleep right away -- and some days are much worse than others, depending on how many deaths I’ve had to call that day, I don’t have someone here who can help bear the burden right now.” 

Justin frowned, remembering that Daphne’s husband Conrad had, on Daphne’s insistence, taken their daughter to his mom’s to stay for the time being, because it was too difficult to ensure their safety based on her level of potential exposure. He knew they FaceTimed and spoke regularly, and tried to spend time together outdoors when Daphne was off, but it wasn’t the same. Daph was taking it in stride, all things considered, and Justin admired her strength, but as he realized how much she was sacrificing in the face of keeping her loved ones safe and healthy, tears sprang back to his eyes.

“Daph, I’m--”

“Don’t apologize to me again, that’s not why I’m telling you this,” Daphne chided. “I chose my career, and I love it, even if it’s not like anything I’d _ever_ envisioned, even practicing in the city. Even on the days I never want to endure again. I choose to focus on the lives we can save. I _have_ to, or I’ll lose my mind. But even I don’t decide which lives those are until we’ve tried _everything_ at our disposal. Are you starting to catch my drift?”

“The life I can save right now is my own,” Justin said quietly. “And Brian’s too… in a way.”

“All those AP classes paid off,” Daphne teased. “But really, Justin. I love you, and I don’t want you to lose yourself in all of this. You need to feel what you feel, but don’t _help_ it along. Don’t push _yourself_ off a cliff.”

Justin found himself nodding along as she spoke. He _had_ been letting himself get caught in a rip current of self-defeat -- in his work, in his relationship, and in his life in general. It was up to him to do what he could to get out of it. “You’re right,” he admitted. 

“Of course I am.” Daphne’s tone was light but matter-of-fact. “You love your art. Remind yourself why you love it. You’ve loved Brian more than life itself for over half of _your_ life. _Talk_ to him. Call your mom. Call Debbie. Call _me_. We’re all fighting our own battles, Jus. All we can do is help each other along the way, and take advantage of the time we _do_ have. There are far too many people without that luxury right now.” 

Daphne’s last statement hit Justin hard as he reflected on it. An incomprehensible number of people had already died from this horrible monster, and people like his best friend -- as well as people in many of the companies that had reached out to Kinnetik in the past few months -- were spending nearly all of their waking hours trying to do what they could to eradicate it. It was a stark realization that Justin needed to start looking at his time at home differently, and figure out how he could make it more meaningful -- both personally and on a larger scale -- rather than focusing on the emptiness and the things he was lacking.

“You’re still allowed to think this sucks,” Daphne’s voice cut into his thoughts, as if reading his mind. “Because it totally fucking does.”

Justin let out a wet laugh. “I love you so much, Daph. Thank you.”

“Anytime. I mean it.” Daphne sighed, and Justin imagined her glancing down at her watch. “I need to get back to check on a few patients. I’m off on Sunday. Maybe we can talk more then?” 

“Definitely,” Justin agreed. “Love you,” he said again.

“Love you back,” Daphne replied. “Now let’s both go kick some ass.” The call ended before Justin could reply, brokering no argument on his part. 

He had a lot of thinking to do.

***

Within an hour of hanging up with Daphne, Justin fell asleep on the guest room bed, exhausted from a poor night’s sleep, combined with his overwrought emotional state. He woke up a few hours later, his stomach growling. He had no idea if Brian and Cynthia were still working, but he still wasn’t quite ready to face his husband anyway. Though he was feeling much more stable than he’d been earlier, talking to Brian still felt like an obstacle that Justin wasn’t ready to tackle, so he hoped that if he went downstairs to eat something, he’d be alone. 

Fortunately, his wish was granted, as it appeared that Brian and Cynthia had ordered takeout and were burning the midnight oil, so he ate his salad and more leftover shrimp scampi in peace before heading back upstairs. 

He decided to stop in the studio, to see if anything had changed, but it only resurrected the same familiar knot in his stomach, so he willed his brain to let go of it, and snagged a sketchbook and his pencil case before heading back to the guest room. 

Their upstairs guest suite was the one most frequently occupied by Justin’s mom on her visits -- Gus had his own room, and the downstairs suite was generally offered to visiting couples, since it offered more privacy -- and since Jennifer often stayed for at least a week at a time, Brian had added a large surface desk to make it more convenient for her to work remotely. As it turned out, the desk was also incredibly convenient as a spot for sketching, and Justin ended up spending the next several hours letting his pencils guide the way. 

It started slowly, a few pages of abstract designs and unfinished ideas, but gradually, inspiration started to take shape, and Justin found himself flipping page after page, bringing his mental machinations to life. 

It was shortly after midnight when Justin finally stopped ignoring the cramps in his hand and put his pencils away for the night. The house was dark when he peeked out into the hallway, indicating that Brian had likely gone upstairs for the night. Justin wasn’t sure if he felt disappointed or not that his husband hadn’t checked in on him, but then he noticed a post-it stuck to the door, and wondered how he’d missed the sound of Brian’s footsteps on their hardwood floor.

Justin settled back onto the bed before he focused on Brian’s note, which read, _Let me know you’re OK. Please. - B._

The urgency in Brian’s chosen syntax made Justin feel a little guilty, but it made more sense when he looked at his cell phone, untouched since his earlier phone call with Daphne. The ringer had been silenced, and Justin realized that he’d missed three texts from Brian, along with one from Daphne, who was checking to see how he was doing, and two from Cynthia, thanking him for his hospitality. 

The first text from Brian had come while Justin was sleeping, letting him know that Brian and Cynthia were ordering dinner from a nearby deli, and asked if he wanted anything. The second text about two hours later, asking where Justin was -- presumably Brian had checked Justin’s regular spots in their home and hadn’t found him. The final text had been sent less than an hour prior, and apparently after Brian had realized where Justin ended up. _I understand if you need space. Please just let me know that you’re alright._

Justin realized then that the post-it had been a desperate last resort, while still trying to respect Justin’s wishes. Besides that, Brian still had a busy day of work ahead, and probably wasn’t mentally equipped for a difficult conversation either, so perhaps it worked to both of their advantages. 

Not wanting to leave anyone hanging or worried about him, Justin sent a quick response to Daphne, thanking her again for their earlier conversation, and then reopened the text with Brian, contemplating what he wanted to say. In the end, he kept it short and sweet: _I’m OK. I love you._

Three ellipses appeared on the screen almost immediately, disappeared, then reappeared a few seconds later. It happened a few more times before Justin’s anxiety got to the better of him and he put his phone back down, deciding to wait for the alert, rather than watching Brian’s attempt to formulate his thoughts in real-time. 

He picked up his sketchbook, flipping to the page where he’d started doodling earlier, beginning to scan through his creations; he’d barely paid attention while he was doing them. He could tell when he’d started taking his sketches more seriously, drawing instinctively, rather than with the precision of his brain, and his eyes filled with tears as they moved over the pages.

Just then, his phone dinged with Brian’s response, and Justin’s eyes spilled over as he read the words: _You are my ONLY priority. I love you._

As his attention shifted back to his sketchbook, his eyes moved over sketch after sketch, drawn from his heart and soul -- all of them Brian Kinney.

Clearly, underneath it all, they were still _very_ much aligned.

*** 

After Brian’s text, Justin had been tempted to go back to their bedroom, but he also realized how necessary it would be for them to talk before anything else -- and showing up in bed while both of them were emotionally charged would lead to the opposite of talking.

Besides that, Brian needed to sleep if he was in for another long day of work, and once Remsen was off his mind, they could focus on each other. Justin didn’t want Brian to feel like he had to “prove” his text by foregoing necessary rest, especially considering his recent stress levels. 

Despite the impromptu nap, Justin found he was still quite tired, and after watching an episode or two of _Schitt’s Creek_ \-- the show that had become his emotional safe haven since the start of the pandemic -- he fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until the next morning, surprisingly later than usual. 

The upside of sleeping in was that Justin finally felt somewhat refreshed -- he hadn't realized how badly his body needed the rest -- but on the downside, he’d missed the opportunity for breakfast with Brian. However, it seemed his husband had considered that, as Justin realized as soon as he opened the guest room door. 

A tray sat on the hallway table, directly across from the door, containing a carafe of hot coffee, a paper bag, and a coffee mug. Most impressively, Brian had gone out to Justin’s garden and clipped a pink rose that laid across the tray. There was no note that Justin could see, but after two decades together, he knew that Brian was certain of two things: for one, Justin loved roses, and two, to Justin, pink roses were an apology. When Justin opened the bag, he gasped in delight when he found two bagels from his favorite east side deli that, clearly, Brian had had delivered just for him. Even without the rose to convey his intentions, Justin truly recognized and appreciated the effort, and wasted no time retrieving his phone to send his husband a text.

 _Thank you for everything. You don’t know what it means to me -- or maybe you do_ 😘☕🥯🌹

It took a few minutes for Brian’s response, but its message was simple and clear: a single red heart emoji. 

_Are you free tonight?_ Justin texted, hoping he hadn’t been wrong in assuming that they could spend the evening together. Fortunately, Brian’s response came much more quickly this time. 

_Completely._

A text from Cynthia followed a few seconds later, and Justin laughed out loud. _Thank fucking god that u 2 kissed and made up. Boss just lit up like a Christmas tree xoxo_ 🥰

It seemed like things were finally looking up.

After returning everything he’d brought down from the bedroom, taking a long shower, and then spending an unnecessarily long amount of time savoring his bagels, Justin spent the rest of the day feeling pretty positive, in hopes that it was a good omen for the rest of the day. 

He didn’t see Brian or Cynthia for the first time until shortly after six o’clock -- or more accurately, he heard them, in the form of distinct cheering. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps on the stairs, so he stood from where he’d been working at the table, and walked into the kitchen just as the grinning duo rounded the staircase, Brian brandishing a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. 

“Tell us how fucking amazing we are,” Brian said, immediately wrapping his free arm around Justin and pulling him in for a kiss. 

“You’re fucking amazing, both of you,” Justin replied, unable to contain his own smile, partly because he was proud of the work they’d accomplished, but also because he couldn’t believe how _fucking_ amazing it felt to see Brian look that genuinely light and happy. It made him realize how long it had been since either of them had experienced that level of joy and made him appreciate the moment even more. 

“We couldn’t toast without you,” Cynthia said, her cheeks flushed and blue eyes sparkling as she and Justin watched Brian retrieve three crystal champagne flutes and then pick up the bottle again.

“Are you going to saber it this time?” Justin teased his husband. Brian’s champagne party trick had become the stuff of legends in the Kinnetik office, but only those at the Pittsburgh launch party had ever seen it in action. 

“Only if you want a cork-shaped dent in the refrigerator door when this thing flies off,” Brian replied with a smirk, then with minimal fanfare, uncorked the bottle with a satisfying _pop!_ and poured them each a glass. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he continued, holding up his glass, “to the most fabulous brilliant business partner in the motherfucking universe,” he beamed at Cynthia, “and,” he turned to Justin, giving him a meaningful nod, “the most incredible partner a person could hope to have -- who should _never_ have to question whether or not he is valued and appreciated by his asshole of a husband. This wouldn’t have happened without either of you, and I love you both.”

Justin had to press his lips together to contain his emotion, as Cynthia whistled and said, “Hear, hear!” then all three clinked glasses and sipped their champagne.

Over the next hour, Brian and Cynthia told him more about the whole process -- that Alex Remsen had called Brian the morning before, essentially making what had seemed like an impossible demand, but how, in the end, the entire Kinnetik team, with all hands on deck between Pittsburgh and New York, had pulled together to knock out an astounding _four_ new and unique print ads in less than thirty-six hours. As they discussed the money involved in the whole process, not to mention the TV ads that were still to come, Justin couldn’t help but swell with pride for their success. Kinnetik had come a long way since he and Brian had toured the dilapidated bathhouse in Pittsburgh over fifteen years prior, and Justin was grateful that they’d hit it out of the park yet again -- thanks, in no uncertain terms, to Brian’s somewhat unconventional, but highly effective leadership. 

“Should we order dinner?” Justin asked, noticing that they’d all finished their champagne. Truthfully, he’d hoped for dinner alone with Brian, but he certainly wasn’t about to cut short a well-deserved celebration.

Fortunately, Cynthia took the matter into her own hands, shaking her head as she stood up from her seat on the sofa. “Brian’s had enough of me the past two days. You two should have the evening to yourselves.” 

After Justin said his goodbyes, Brian walked Cynthia down to the front door while Justin perused the food delivery apps on his phone, wondering what Brian might be craving. 

“I took care of dinner,” Brian said, breaking Justin’s concentration when he re-entered the room. “It’ll be here at eight.” 

“Oh, thanks,” Justin said, offering a small smile. A pang registered in his chest as he realized that it was the first time he and Brian had been alone together since the previous morning at breakfast, and the air between them still felt a little stilted. 

Brian offered a tentative smile of his own, crossing the room to sit in the armchair perpendicular to the sofa where Justin sat. There was a long silence as Justin wondered if Brian had something to say, or if they’d spend the next thirty-five minutes making awkward smalltalk until their food arrived. After another few seconds, Brian took a deep breath and seemed to make an executive decision. “I meant what I said before,” he began, watching Justin intently. “I’m sorry that I’ve made you feel unappreciated. The truth is, I know you take the brunt of my stress, and I appreciate you for it more than you know. But, it also doesn’t mean that it’s right, or that you deserve it.”

“Thank you,” Justin said quietly. “That means a lot to me. Especially the last part,” he admitted.

Brian nodded in acceptance. “Well, as my dear old dad used to say, ‘Action talks; bullshit walks.’ I need to be a little more… cognizant of how I respond when I’m stressed or frustrated. And I know it hasn’t just been the last few days. It’s just become a bit more… apparent.”

“Cynthia?” Justin guessed, raising an eyebrow, but surprisingly, Brian shook his head.

“She ripped me a new one after you left yesterday, but I knew I’d fucked up before that. I knew it the night before too.” Brian paused, his brow furrowed with concern. “I- I don’t want you thinking that we’re having this conversation because Cynthia told me I needed to,” he continued, sounding genuinely troubled by the notion. “This isn’t a- a fucking teambuilding exercise that I was guilted into doing, OK?”

Justin nodded. “I believe you,” he said, meaning it. He knew Brian well enough to see the genuine sincerity in his words. Despite his bark, Justin knew better than anyone that, under it all, Brian cared more than most people. And while he didn’t trust many, there were a select few that he trusted deeply. The downside to that was that he also trusted that said people would continually forgive his transgressions -- and while it wasn’t an entirely unfounded belief, it also wasn’t a healthy way to conduct relationships, and Brian knew it. 

Before they could get much further into their conversation, their food arrived, so Brian went downstairs to retrieve it while Justin pulled out plates, silverware, and a bottle of wine. 

When Brian returned and set the delivery bag on the counter, Justin noticed its insignia and gave him a curious look. Brian gave him an almost shy smile and said, “I ordered the chicken for two from The Standard. I hope that’s alright.” 

“Of course it is!” Justin replied, surprised that Brian had thought of it. It was one of his all-time favorite dishes, but one they rarely seeked. The fact that Brian had ordered it tonight was another glimpse into the loving, thoughtful man that truly existed beneath the stress-driven temper tantrums. Testing the waters, Justin gave Brian a coy look. “You know it has potatoes…”

Brian snorted. “OK, I was being a total dick the other night.” He paused, sobering further. “I don’t just appreciate that you take my bullshit. I appreciate _everything_ you do for us. For _me_. I’m sorry I made you question that.”

Justin nodded, not trusting his voice to respond. 

They had dinner at the kitchen counter together, mostly focused on eating. Justin knew that there was a lot more they needed to discuss -- they had barely been chipping away at the real crux of the problem -- but it would be best tackled with each other’s undivided attention. 

Afterward, they decided to move up to the sitting area in their master bedroom, taking the remaining bottle of wine with them. 

“You know I’m awful at these things,” Brian began, once they’d gotten settled, sitting face-to-face on the loveseat that faced their fireplace. “My whole fucking job is to come up with brilliant things to say, but when it comes down to it, in the moments when it matters most, I’m total shit.” 

Justin opened his mouth to object, but Brian shook his head to silence him.

“My point is that I know you want to talk. I know there are things you want me to know. So, I want _you_ to know that I’m listening, and that I’ll answer anything you want to know in return.”

“I don’t really think I have specific questions for you,” Justin admitted. “But I’ve realized some things in the past few days that I do need for you to know.”

Brian nodded, and Justin could see his Adam’s Apple move as he swallowed nervously, but didn’t say anything. 

Justin took a deep breath, ready to lay it all out. “I’ve been struggling,” he began, hoping he’d be able to hold himself together. “A lot. I don’t think I realized how much until the last few days, but it’s been… a while.”

Brian nodded again, but this time, the concern and warmth in his hazel eyes made Justin want to burst into tears on the spot.

“I talked to Daphne yesterday, and she finally helped me realize what’s been going on, and what I need to do about it,” Justin continued. He looked Brian directly in the eyes, cursing that his own eyes filled with tears the moment he did it. “I think I’m depressed,” he whispered. “I’m pretty sure I am, anyway.”

“Justin,” Brian said, his expression solemn, “What’s going on?”

Justin sniffed, hoping that his nose wouldn’t start running as he tried to speak without crying. “It’s just everything lately,” he admitted. “I feel like I’m shit with my art, I feel like I’m shit at anticipating what you need from me -- or providing it when you do need it--”

“Why the fuck would you think that?” Brian asked. His tone was gentle, but he looked bewildered by the notion. “You’re better than _I_ am at knowing what I need.” 

Justin shrugged. “I guess sometimes, it just feels like I get it all wrong. And,” he sighed, “Brian, we’ve barely had sex the last few months. And most of the time, it’s been because of me, so I guess… I guess I wonder sometimes if that’s part of what contributes to your stress -- maybe not directly, but, like… maybe it would help if--”

Brian rolled his eyes. “OK, let’s just be clear about one thing,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “Justin, you are my husband, not my- my fucking _concubine_. Whether or not we have sex is every bit as up to you as it is to me, and if you’re not in the mood, then that’s entirely within your right, and I will _always_ respect it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but--” Justin began, and sighed again. “I just feel bad that I haven’t really been… in the mood lately, I guess. I don’t want you to start thinking it’s because of you. It’s just… something’s been broken inside of me, and until… honestly, until last night, I hadn’t been feeling like myself at all.”

“Last night when we texted?” Brian guessed.

Justin nodded. “I had fallen asleep, so I didn’t see all of your messages until around the time I replied, and when I saw your last text, I- I wanted you so badly. I missed you. I missed us.”

“Why didn’t you come up to bed?” Brian asked curiously. “I was hoping you would.”

“I know,” Justin said sighing. “But sex wasn’t going to fix this--” he gestured between the two of them “--and I didn’t want to give myself a false sense that it would. I knew we needed to talk first, and I knew you needed to sleep so you could be focused for today.” 

Brian’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “I’m impressively efficacious on minimal sleep, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.” He looked down at his lap, pressing his lips together, before bringing his gaze back to Justin. “I’ve missed you too. More than you know. And not just the sex. You’ve felt far away for a couple weeks now,” Brian admitted. “I guess I thought it was me.” 

“You?” Justin’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “Why?”

Brian shook his head. “I want to finish talking about you first. I promise I’ll reciprocate.” At Justin’s nod of agreement, he continued. “You said you feel like you’re shit at your art -- since when?”

Justin sighed again, and then launched into the explanation he’d given to Daphne -- that the uncertainty of his business concerned him as he reached the end of his commissions, that he felt lost without the camaraderie of the art community and their shared events, and that he had been having a difficult time just generally finding enjoyment in the act of creation, which left him feeling worthless and ashamed.

Brian looked a bit flabbergasted by the time Justin finished talking, though he’d followed along attentively, offering signs of understanding where he could. When he felt it was finally appropriate to speak, he cleared his throat. “You know,” he began, then stopped, chewing the inside of his cheek as he tried to formulate a coherent thought. “You said that you didn’t think you were good at anticipating my needs.” Brian huffed out a humorous laugh. “Fuck, Justin, where have _I_ been? All this time, I’ve just been assuming that everything is fine.”

“I allowed it,” Justin argued. “I knew you were under a lot of stress, and I thought I could handle it. I thought it would come back eventually, and one day I’d have some… some fucking brilliant epiphany and it would all be back to normal.” 

Brian closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head almost imperceptibly, seeming frustrated, though Justin wasn’t sure to which of them it was directed. When a few seconds passed, Justin asked directly if Brian was upset with him.

“What? No,” Brian scoffed. “I’m upset with myself. I haven’t handled things any better, and it’s affected you.” He frowned and massaged at his forehead before continuing. “This whole pandemic has fucked with me in ways I haven’t wanted to admit, and I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s really just turned me into a raging asshole.” Brian sighed and shook his head. “And before you say it, I know I can be a raging asshole anyway, but that’s generally in more of an operative sense.” 

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Well, we both know I can be,” Brian replied. “But it was particularly unfair to you this time.”

“Me?” Justin asked, sounding confused. 

Brian was silent for nearly a full minute before he began speaking again, and when Justin heard his voice, he realized that it was because Brian was trying to contain his emotions as he spoke. 

“I resented you,” he near-whispered. “I felt so much pressure to keep everything perfect at Kinnetik -- keep the existing clients happy, onboard the new accounts, make sure the staff had everything they needed to work from home, keep meeting the deadlines with an entirely new work structure -- just do every possible fucking thing I could to keep the agency viable without any kind of certainty or timeline for the future.” He swallowed hard, looking sad. “And then I’d see you making sure I had breakfast, ordering or making me lunch, having an amazing hot meal ready when I’d come upstairs… And I saw your commissions -- they’re fucking brilliant. It just seemed like somehow, as I was drowning, you were keeping everything together like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.”

Justin snorted a laugh at the suggestion, though there were tears in his eyes as he listened to Brian’s confession. “I was anything _but_ together.”

Brian released a slow breath. When he spoke again, his voice was shaky. “I know that now. And I’m so fucking mad at myself. All this time, I’ve been assuming that you weren’t understanding the pressure I’ve been under, yet it turns out that because you _did_ understand, you chose not to tell me what you were going through. How fucked up is that?”

“It’s pretty fucked up,” Justin agreed sadly. “But also because all this time, even though I knew you were stressed, I was also so… _jealous_ of your success, and how everything was so booming, yet I was practically pulling at threads to hang onto mine, and I _hated_ that I felt that way.” 

Their conversation continued through the better part of another hour as both finally opened up and shared more about how they’d each been struggling with the unexpected transitions and pressures of life as they had come to know it since the early part of the year. Daphne had been right -- there was a lot more under the surface, and it made Justin realize that he’d been missing a lot of signs from Brian that he should have recognized as well. In the end, neither was more responsible than the other, and lack of communication had been the ultimate culprit. 

Eventually, the topic shifted back to the present, and what each could do moving forward, because their unanimous agreement was that they much preferred operating as a functional unit, and, after Justin had shared Daphne’s “reality bomb,” both acknowledged that their time at home could be spent much more harmoniously.

At some point during the conversation’s upswing, their positions had shifted, with Justin settling into Brian’s side, tucked under his right arm. After a lull, Brian nudged him, prompting Justin to look up at him.

“You mentioned earlier that something changed last night,” Brian remembered. “Not the part about wanting to come upstairs, but was there something related to your art as well?”

Justin smiled, happy that he’d left his sketchbook upstairs that morning. “Two things,” he admitted, though the first of the two was a decision he’d finalized in his head through the course of the evening’s conversation. 

“Feel free to share.” Brian’s tone was mild, but Justin could parse out the curiosity in it.

“Well,” Justin started, hoping he was making the right call. “I’m thinking that I need a fresh approach in marketing my art…” He glanced up at Brian just in time to see an amused eyebrow quirk up on his husband’s forehead.

“Oh? You have my _rapt_ attention.” 

“It turns out,” Justin said, turning out of Brian’s side so that they could face each other, “that I know this incredibly successful and wildly sexy advertising executive, and--”

Brian couldn’t contain the smile that broke out on his face. “Anyone I know?”

“I think so,” Justin teased. “Gardner Vance?”

The guffaw that escaped Brian’s throat was loud and genuine, and it warmed Justin to the core, despite the fact that his husband immediately pushed him playfully and exclaimed, “Fuck you!” Afterward, they both dissolved into laughter that seemed to clear any remaining tension between them. When they regained control of themselves, Brian looked genuinely excited. “Are you serious? You’d let Kinnetik help you?”

“Well,” Justin said thoughtfully, “technically yes, but I think what I’d really prefer is _your_ help.”

Before Justin could say anything further, Brian’s lips were on his, and Justin welcomed them readily, his hands moving up to cup Brian’s cheeks as they kissed.

“Is that a yes?” Justin teased when they separated.

“Twat,” Brian murmured affectionately, still looking happier than Justin had seen him in a long time, before asking, “What’s the other thing?”

Suddenly, the prospect of showing Brian what he’d sketched made Justin feel shyer than he’d expected, but he stood up and retrieved his sketchbook from his nightstand. “Um, Daph had suggested that I try to remind myself of why I fell in love with art, so I started sketching again last night, just kind of… trying to see what inspired me. I didn’t have a direction, I just… followed my heart, and… well....” He held the book out to Brian, looking away as Brian accepted it. 

Once Brian started flipping through the first few pages, Justin dared to look over, watching his husband’s face. The first few page turns were relatively quick as Brian scanned Justin’s more abstract drawing attempts, but after another turn, his breath caught in his throat with a barely-perceptible hitch. The pages turned more slowly now, Brian skimming more thoroughly as he took in the drawings -- his own image lovingly committed to graphite and paper by the person who loved him most in the world.

Justin’s emotions got the better of him as he waited for Brian’s reaction, and a sniff gave him away, causing Brian to look up. What Justin hadn’t expected were the tears in Brian’s eyes and the unmistakable look of unconditional, unabashed look of pure love.

“Please say something,” Justin whispered after a moment. 

Brian closed his eyes briefly, not bothering to wipe the two tears that trickled down his cheeks. When he looked at Justin again, he reached out and took his hands. “If I _ever_ forget what you mean to me, after you kick my ass, please remind me of this _exact_ moment,” he said, his voice thick. “Thank you.”

Justin nodded, a quiet gratitude between them as they moved back into each other’s arms, finally ready to consummate a renewed commitment to one another. Unlike so many times in the recent past, it wasn’t about fulfilling a carnal desire, chasing an orgasm, stress relief, or even just finding a way to avoid boredom, but rather re-establishing a true and genuine connection between them, body and soul.

They undressed each other slowly, exchanging tender kisses and gentle caresses as they took the time to focus on each newly revealed body part, seeking the areas that only they knew and doing everything they could to draw out as much pleasure as possible. When they finally moved to the bed, Justin was practically begging for Brian to take him, and Brian was happy to oblige, earning every moan, sigh, and cry of ecstasy, while Justin did all he could to reciprocate. It was their most fluent language, and always had been, but with the benefit of twenty years spent learning each other inside and out, it was clear that they only continued to improve with time.

A second round followed shortly after the first, this time, in the shower, as they held each other close, Brian rocking into Justin, clutching Justin’s slick body like his life depended on it -- and maybe it did, because while Brian knew that their physical connection was intense and electrifying, it was Justin himself that he couldn’t live without, and he would do everything he could to protect what they shared. 

Finally spent, they dried off and tumbled into bed, their bodies finding each other again, tangling together beneath the duvet, neither wanting to be far from the other. As Brian listened to Justin’s breathing grow even, he hugged him closer and sighed. They both knew that their difficulties hadn’t ended -- a magic wand wouldn’t make their deep-rooted insecurities and fears disappear overnight. But if there was anything positive to come of COVID-19 and the lessons of 2020, the most important was to cherish each other, often and fully, appreciating each and every day they shared.

Outside the four walls of their little world, a pandemic raged on, and where and how it would end continued to remain uncertain; with it left the possibility of things getting much worse before they got better. But what they both also knew was that, if they’d learned anything from the last few weeks, they were much stronger and better-equipped when they tackled their challenges together. 

_Note: If you are struggling with the COVID-19 pandemic, you are not alone, and should not feel ashamed. Working in mental health, one of the top concerning comments I have heard is that people don’t want to reach out for help because they are embarrassed or feel they should be able to “handle it.” This is a myth! If you are having a hard time, talk to someone you trust or seek counseling ASAP. Telehealth-based therapy and many other affordable/confidential resources are available. There are lots of places to search, but NAMI.org has a good variety of options, for somewhere to start_ 💚

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts! Comments = Love. 
> 
> Wishing you all a Happy and Healthy 2021.


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